“Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing
On the west wind blowing along this valley track?”
“The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,
We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.”
So they two went together in glowing August weather,
The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;
And dear she was to dote on, her swift feet seemed to float on
The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.
This photo was taken on the North York Moors, which are bright with purple heather every August. We used to head out to the moors to walk on bank holidays, avoiding the crowds in the Dales. This was an August bank holiday Sunday, and as you can see, it’s not exactly packed.
Things end rather badly for the couple in the poem, who turn out to be following “hell’s own track.” I hope the pair in the picture fared slightly better at the end of their ramble!